Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The night split open with fire and steel.

Draven’s men surged forward, shadows against the blaze of the burning warehouse. This was not a negotiation. It was a slaughter.

The Black Veil’s guards barely had time to react. The first few dropped before they even realized what was happening—throats slit in the dark, crossbow bolts burying themselves into flesh before alarmed shouts could even escape their lips.

Then, the real fight began.

“Push forward!” Draven barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. “Don’t give them time to regroup!”

His men needed no second orders.

They crashed into the Black Veil’s defenses like a wave of pure violence, blades flashing under the dim torchlight. Steel met steel, bodies collided, and the warehouse became a battlefield of frantic, brutal combat.

A Black Veil enforcer rushed Draven from the side, a curved dagger gleaming in his grip. Fast. Well-trained.

Too slow.

Draven sidestepped the strike with practiced ease, his dagger already burying itself into the man’s ribs. A sharp twist—bone snapped, the enforcer choking on his own blood before crumpling to the floor.

A second one lunged—a war axe, swinging in a deadly arc.

Draven ducked, rolling forward under the strike, coming up behind the attacker before raking his second dagger across his exposed hamstring. The man screamed, collapsing onto one knee—just before a boot to the skull silenced him permanently.

“Take the upper floors!” Draven shouted, pointing toward the catwalks lining the warehouse walls. “Cut off their vantage points!”

A cluster of his men immediately broke off, scaling the wooden structures with practiced efficiency. A crossbowman barely had time to register their presence before a blade sank into his back, his body pitching over the railing.

They were winning.

Draven could feel it.

But this was just one piece of the fight.

Across the city, Vyrell, Soren, and the others were leading their own assaults. This war wasn’t being fought in one place—it was spreading, unraveling the Black Veil’s hold on Varenthia in a single, decisive night.

Draven just had to make sure his part was flawless.

A heavily armored lieutenant stormed toward him, flanked by two others. More disciplined than the rest. More dangerous.

“Kill him!” one of them snarled.

Draven clicked his tongue. “Tch. You bastards never learn.”

The first swung—a broad, heavy cleave that aimed to split him in two.

Draven twisted away, his daggers flashing outward as he slashed across the exposed wrist of the attacker. The man roared in pain, dropping his weapon—but before he could react, Draven was already moving, ducking low and driving his blade up through the man’s ribs.

A fatal strike.

The second enemy came in from behind.

Draven sensed it—pivoted. A dagger was already in his grip before the attack could connect. He slammed it into the man’s thigh, twisting it viciously.

“Argh—!”

The enforcer stumbled, but Draven wasn’t done.

A swift elbow to the jaw—bone crunched. Before the attacker could recover, Draven caught the back of his head and slammed it down onto a nearby crate.

Silence.

The last of them took a hesitant step back, suddenly aware of the carnage around him.

Draven smirked, flicking blood from his blade. “Go on,” he taunted. “Run.”

The enforcer hesitated.

Then he ran.

Draven exhaled, scanning the battlefield. His men were winning. The warehouse was nearly theirs.

Then—

“Boss!” One of his men sprinted toward him, panting. “One of them is escaping! We spotted movement toward the back alley!”

Draven’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Not sure, but they looked important! Could be one of Aldric’s top men!”

Draven exhaled sharply, flicking the blood from his dagger before sliding it back into its sheath. His gray eyes followed the direction of the escapee, his expression unreadable.

His men were waiting for orders. Expecting him to give the signal to pursue, to hunt down whoever it was before they disappeared into the alleys of Varenthia.

But instead—Draven simply smirked.

“Let them go.”

His men hesitated. “Boss?”

Draven turned slightly, his gaze lingering on the darkened streets beyond. “We could chase them down,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders. “Cut them off before they get too far. Maybe even take them out before they reach Aldric.”

A pause.

Then, his smirk widened. “But that’s not what we want, is it?”

Realization dawned in some of their faces. Aldric needed to know.

This wasn’t a small skirmish.

This wasn’t just another group trying to muscle in on his operations.

This was war.

Draven exhaled through his nose, already picturing how Aldric would react when word reached him. Would he stay in hiding? Would he try to retaliate immediately? Or would he send more of his men to be cut down?

“Let’s hope it works out,” he muttered, turning back toward the battlefield.

*****

On another side, Vyrell moved like a shadow through the warehouse district, his men slipping between the gaps of flickering lantern light, weapons drawn but silent.

The Black Veil had set up supply routes here—hidden caches, stockpiles, and bribe-runner trails that ensured no single attack could cripple them completely. That ended tonight.

A silent motion of his fingers, and his men moved.

Crossbows loosed. Silent deaths followed.

Then—

A sudden explosion of fire.

The first warehouse ignited, flames licking across the wooden beams as the crates of smuggled goods became kindling.

The shouts began.

Vyrell watched, his expression calm as the enemy scrambled in disarray.

“Stay on them,” he murmured. “Not a single one leaves alive.”

****

Unlike Vyrell’s precision, Soren brought war.

He came crashing through the front doors of one of the largest Black Veil dens, his warhammer shattering wood and bone alike as he led his men straight into the heart of enemy territory.

“YOU BASTARDS HAVE HAD IT TOO EASY!” he roared, swinging his hammer into the chest of a guard, sending him flying into the back wall.

Chaos erupted.

His men tore into the ranks of the Black Veil, steel flashing, blood spraying against the stone walls.

Soren grinned, his body alight with battle. This? This was what he lived for.

One of the Black Veil lieutenants lunged at him, a pair of curved blades flashing. Fast. Too fast for a normal fighter.

An Awakened.

Soren grinned wider. “Finally.”

The two clashed, the entire city now drowned in chaos.

*****

Inside the room, a man sat at the heavy oak table, his gloved fingers pressing against the edges of a map spread across its surface. The dim candlelight flickered, casting shadows over the marked trade routes crisscrossing Varenthia like a spider’s web.

Opposite him, a figure leaned against the wooden frame of the window, arms crossed, face unreadable. The scent of ink and aged parchment mixed with the faint hint of cold steel—a quiet reminder of the weapons resting just within reach.

The figure by the window let out a slow, measured breath, his silhouette unmoving against the faint glow of the city beyond. His voice, when it came, was smooth, deliberate—a blade wrapped in silk.

“Six months.”

Aldric’s fingers tensed against the map, but he said nothing.

“I want these routes finalized,” the figure continued, his tone carrying the quiet authority of someone accustomed to obedience. “No delays. No disruptions. The city will be under our control by then—completely.”

Aldric’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked up, sharp and cold. “You act as if I’m dragging my feet.”

The figure didn’t move. “Are you?”

A slow pulse of anger coiled in Aldric’s chest. The candlelight danced across his face, catching the faintest twitch in his expression.

“You’re looking down on me.” His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous.

The figure finally turned, stepping away from the window, his posture still maddeningly composed. “I’m ensuring results.” He moved toward the table, his shadow stretching over the map, over the trade routes Aldric had spent months securing. “Because you, Aldric, understand the stakes better than anyone.”

Aldric exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists against the table. ‘Tch….You arrogant bastard.’

He did understand the stakes.

The moment he had turned his back on the Veltorin name.

The figure tilted his head slightly, watching him with that same unreadable expression. Then—smooth as a dagger sliding between ribs—he spoke.

“We both know you don’t care about honor.”

Aldric’s breath was slow, controlled—but his fingers dug into the table’s surface, just slightly.

“Spare me the indignation,” the figure continued, stepping closer. “You gave up your honor the moment you turned your back on your family. The moment you accepted my offer.” His voice was calm, almost bored. “So let’s not pretend you’re clinging to some grand ideal.”

Aldric exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to unclench his hands. ‘He thinks he’s got me completely leashed, doesn’t he?’

The figure tapped the edge of the map. “Fulfill your end of the deal.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze glinting in the dim candlelight. “And this city is yours to rule.”